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If I had started a diary in 2013, how would my life be different? If I wrote a letter to my crush of the week, would I know how to approach her? If I wrote to those who aren't myself, would I be locked in this empty metacognition? There's no individual who knows better that no individual matters without people. I thought I could do it by myself, by focusing on myself, and what I did wrong, and what I should change. And there was no one to guide me, nothing reflecting inside me to refute any of my crazier notions. Every word became syllables, letters, and sounds, nothing impressive, just monkeys who learned to communicate with specific noises. To delve deeper and deeper, to find nothing is there, and to believe the solution is to dig so much deeper. These words reflect everything that reflects within me, which is bland, stark, and inconsistent. Almost indifferent, all that matters it's what coming from me. And nobody on this planet would find it interesting to read. But I believe this is part of what makes someone crazy. At this point, how can I properly speak? To gather reflections, to gain new perspectives, at what point is it too late for me? At what point do I become an empty shell of a man, driven by pure desire, blood on my hand. A smile is all that I ask from you. A smile is all that I can muster today. Since I'm speaking about myself, and it's art, right? It doesn't need to mean anything. I'll learn about myself if I write intuitively. But what if I care more about rhymes than my brain? But I let rhymes go to explain that I'm insane. And the syllables don't quite line, it drives me- and I can't use the same word to rhyme with another, but I do that for them, not for me. For those who may read. Why would they? I want it to happen on the offchance they'll label me a genius. But I know that won't happen, I lack vocabulary and reason. But I say that it won't to garner praise for my ability to be realistic. But I still hope. And I'm proud of myself for admitting that. Is that so bad? Is it good? Neutral? I've considered all options, my job here is done. Inspire me, please, to reignite my drive. The engine inside is *insert metaphors here*. I haven't shed a tear, I'm nearing the end of this night, I might be able to sleep well. Might not. But there's no meaning to these final lines, I'm trying to smile, keep my head high. Tell my side of the story when I die. Will they lie? I suspect. Was he alright? I wasn't sure, he seemed okay. Not today. Not soon. The doom comes through the echoes of a foreign moon. Yes, dude, please let me use your dad's yacht for the weekend! Frickin yes, dude!